


What An Absurd Arrangement. (a.k.a. The Christie Case)

by CompanionToMisterHolmes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Fluff, old prompt new place
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 04:44:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CompanionToMisterHolmes/pseuds/CompanionToMisterHolmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the prompt - 'Sherlock litters on the floor and Molly does all she can to make him pick up his rubbish, but Sherlock being Sherlock, he turns into a petulant child and pouts and complains all the way, but he did pick up his litter :3 If you would do me the honour of filling up my prompt, I would be more than delighted to read what you have in mind :3 I REQUIRE FWUFF…' - from Zoraarian</p>
            </blockquote>





	What An Absurd Arrangement. (a.k.a. The Christie Case)

“For God’s sake Sherlock, you don’t even live with me anymore!” Molly’s face was like thunder and confusion as she dumped down an unusually scruffy and extrodinarily thick stack of papers on the desk that seperated her and Sherlock. A few stray wrappers poked out of the sides, and a large leather bound copy of Agatha Christie sat at the bottom. “How am I still finding your rubbish everywhere? I swear most of this was made when I wasn’t at home!” She picked apart the stack removing as many of the crisp, biscuit and chocolate packets that she dare find, these where few in comparison to the many she’d found when actually tidying her flat. “And I thought that you didn’t eat on a case, doesn’t it reduce your cognitive function, which is complete crap by the way, but that’s an argument I’m  _not_  having again.”

“Correct on two counts, wrong on one, Molly. I do not eat when I am on a case as such, and you weren’t at home when I was picking the mind of Ms. Christie.”

“Picking what now?”

“Please don’t play dumb Molly, it doesn’t suite you, your hearing was not impared, you heard perfectly clearly.”

Molly was a little astounded that Sherlock was somehow turning the creation of her flat’s dissary into a conversation about Agatha Christie.

“And don’t play smart arse with me, you were fully aware of the implications of my question, let me set it out more clearly. Why were you in my flat without me, and why had you decided that you would make piles of notes on the mysteries of a writer and litter them about my flat, mixed with the cast offs of your junk food addiction?”

“Well, Doctor Hooper. Assertive is certainly more attractive on you.”

She couldn’t really control the blush that fell upon pale features, but the stern look upon her face battled with it. 

“That shall not work on me Mr Holmes, and those puppy dog eyes certainly don’t work without sincerity.” Her anger had won out, the top few papers floating to the floor reminding her of the outrageous mess that was scattered throughout her usually pristine home.

 

“Oh, but Molly. I mean to grovel with the utmost sincerity.” 

 

“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit Sherlock.” Well okay, she didn’t believe that in so many words, she didn’t particularily believe it at all, but with that look in his eye and the smug grin that spread across his delectable lips she wanted to punch it right off his handsome face.

 

“Your eyes betray you, Molly Hooper.” 

 

“Yes well that scrawl you consider handwriting has no place stuck to my walls, or carpeting my floors. Oh, I’m sure it’s intellectual, but I can’t read it… And I’m a Doctor, our handwriting is notably indecipherable.” 

 

“Yes well.” Sherlock fell into silence again, it was certainly unlike him to not have a comeback, even more unlike himself to fall short for any words at all; but ever since this fierce Molly had come into full fruition around him, as much as the rest of the world had been a party to since her not so fragile age of 15, that had certainly changed.

 

“Oh I do enjoy a speechless Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“And I do enjoy a ferocious Moly Hooper.” He pulled her towards his static stool by her waist, she wasn’t shocked and she most certainly wasn't displeased when his smug smile met her lips in a short, hard kiss. 

 

She pulled away from him batting away his loose grip around her middle, he could sense she was still not best pleased, reading the complicated and contradictory emotions of women with a slightly greater ease than the beginning of their ‘arrangement’ 11 months previous. It also appeared that in this time Molly had honed her ‘mind of Sherlock Holmes’ reading skills. 

 

“If you could please stop referencing to our relationship as an ‘arrangement’ in the big ol’ brain of yours. I get off work in 20 minutes, and you’re still just on the ‘Christie case’, so you're coming home with me.”

 

The smile that found itself in the broad lips of the man opposite her, lead her to believe he had read a subtext that was not at all present.

 

“Oh, Mr Holmes, I’m afraid, you’ll be round mine to clear up your substantial mess. Maybe one day you’ll learn to pick up after yourself, but until that day I shall be forcing this upon you.” 

 

To that Sherlock merely harrumphed, waiting out until the end of Molly’s shift. He spent the short walk to her flat in a toddler-esque silence, dragging his feet across the grey lumpy pavement. And when he entered Molly’s paper clad home, he couldn’t help but grumpily whisper, “I actually think it looks better this was, a stylistic wallpaper choice.” 

 

“Yes well you have a choice then, tidy it away, or carefully, painstakingly and with great precision use it as wallpaper to create a feature wall in the living room, if you’re so confident in interior design.” 

 

* * *

 

Molly, fully clothed lay on top of her covers, in the saftey of her room, the only room unaffected by the paper storm (Sherlock seemed to pride the tidynees of her room above that rest her home, never wanting to awaken to a mess). Two hours of distant gruff frustrated moans, and varying levels of terrible TV, Molly was nodding off to the silence of the TV guide and the careful shuffling of papers. Of course Sherlock would enter, brash and bold, the frustration of a temper tantrum etched on his features just as her eyelids gave up the fight. There was a glint in his eyes as she stirred, being pulled upright by the looming man. “DONE!” 

 

She walked through to her living room, greeted by a beautifully clear floor, and two stacks of neatly, well, filed papers. She smiled beautifully at the man to her left, he melted at her joy, making the past hours almost worth it, (but future hours of tidying up as the mess is made still unthinkable). Leaning up to peck his lips her eyes flew wide and her lips pulled quickly away from the awaiting pout of the tall man, she spun to stare at the once apricot-cream chimney breast, now papered in the terribly scrawled case notes of a certain Consulting Detective. It was thoughtful and brilliant, yet she promised herself that her use of sarcasm would be more clear to the thirty five year old toddler in future.

 

* * *

 

Over the coming weeks, trying to dechipher the handwriting of a Holmes that literally littered her wall, she found that it was all of their shared cases since the beginning of their ‘arrangement’, and that mixed in with the terribly descriptive autopsy notes and graphic descriptions of terrible murders (written with far too much jubilance), there were complimentary deductions of Molly, how she had dressed that day, that he had particularily enjoyed her mischievous smile that morning, or a particular favourite if hers  _‘I suppose it’s safe to say, Molly Hooper is my girlfriend. What an absurd arrangement.’_

* * *

 


End file.
